


Worn out places, worn out faces

by DecayingLiberty



Series: Dust and Shadow [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Gen, Light Angst, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 08:59:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18007856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DecayingLiberty/pseuds/DecayingLiberty
Summary: Grantaire is running from his memories but in the end, his past life catches up to him.





	Worn out places, worn out faces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [edema_ruh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edema_ruh/gifts).



> A fic where Enjolras and Grantaire interact? By me? It's more likely than you think!

There has been only one place his reeling mind could find any resemblance of peace and it’s the second floor of an pretentious burger place at this particular intersection that has drawn him in the first time he stepped into the streets of Paris and even though he has no desire to spend his money on overpriced mediocrity, he still goes there every time his mind is running and running and running, orders a coke and a portion of fries, sits, and watches.

And often he takes pictures. He has to, because the world will change before his eyes — sometimes the table is no longer sleek painted wood but rough and coarse and old, sometimes there’s is no table at all and he looks down to the street through a shattered window, broken glass, broken walls, broken streets. Sometimes he sees the image of someone smiling at him, waiting for him but when he blinks, they are gone. There are phantoms lurking in the shadows, out of his vision, out of his reach and he is afraid of them. With his camera he can confirm that they are not real because —

Grantaire fears the day they become real.

The dreams are not pleasant and the memories they hide are only scraps. It is a bit like scrying, a bit like getting glimpses into the future, only these are from the past. What he sees is not something he likes, or something he would like to relive. Not yet.

He can’t.

He has built himself a life now and no matter how imperfect and how fragile it is, he does not want to give it up. He is clinging to scraps of normalcy, to the things that he knows how to handle, simple and familiar, and at times that is all that keeps him going, that makes him roll out of bed in the morning and forces him to look into the mirror to fix himself up. It is a routine. It is his routine. Without it, he would be falling, with thoughts tumbling, wandering aimlessly.

And yet he still goes here every day, hoping and fearing, always hoping and fearing, until his drink turns stale and the staff is ready to end their shift.

Sometimes, he hears a distant tune, a drinking song perhaps — the words are only scraps, words here and there, but never coherent — and then he puts on his earphones and listens to angry music, so loud and mind numbing that he cant even hear himself think.

Today he is back at the place, up on the first floor and looking down unto the intersection of two narrow streets. They are wider than they were back then, but their basic shape stayed the same. His camera sits on the table facing the street, and Grantaire clutches it tightly in a white knuckled grip, ready to snap a picture every time the image of the modern street vanishes or blurs. There’s nothing wrong with it.

This is simple. This is routine.

The fries and the drink taste like they always do, soggy and bland and lukewarm but maybe that’s because Grantaire doesn’t touch them until he remembers that he had to keep up an appearance of normalcy. He tries not to think. He is waiting. There are lots of things he had to do today, things that he has procrastinated on because his brain is running and running and running and when he is here, he can pretend his only task is to stay awake, stay alert in this life.

Some time in the late afternoon, when the sun is at its warmest, low and close to the horizon and almost orange, someone walks in and comes to a halt in a respectful distance to Grantaire’s table, and instead of looking for a table themself, the stranger stands in front of the window, arms anxiously crossed, and looking out the window and down onto the street, just like Grantaire did.

“Excuse me,” the stranger says after a while, “Do you recognize me?”

And Grantaire looks up at him. It is not so strange after all to be asked by a stranger he has just photographed if he knew and yet Grantaire can’t help but feel off. The stranger is holding his arms in front of his chest, looking worried and a bit ragged, his lips trembles as he is chewing on it anxiously, waiting for Grantaire to answer but Grantaire can’t. The words die on his tongue because he had assumed that this blond person is not real, a mere hallucination, but he isn’t. He is real. He can’t be real, Grantaire tells himself.

And then, the world is twisting, swimming, changing again.

The stranger is no longer a stranger but a friend. Or Grantaire assumes that they were friends. Or perhaps good acquaintances. Maybe, or maybe not, maybe they had only passed once in the street... yet, Grantaire’s knows this particular shade of blonde hair, has seen this exact posture, seen this exact set of blue eyes looking down at him, only now they look less hard, now they are just unsure and wavering.

“Do I?” Grantaire says and he feels like the stranger looks.

Their silence is heavy, loaded with something, a realization that hangs in the air but one that is elusive, just on the tip of your tongue, on the edge of your mind but not yet fully to be grasped.

“I’m sorry for bothering you.” says the stranger after a while. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m —”

“Do you know me?” Grantaire asks.

The stranger looks at him for a long time, blinks, and his stare turns distant and unfocused. and Grantaire knows that his own image is shifting for the stranger, shifting and twisting, like his own mind sometimes does.

The stranger nods once.

And with that the spell breaks. Grantaire is left to watch as the stranger hurries down the stairs until the vaguely familiar blonde curls disappear.

 

* * *

 

To say that thing go back to as they were after the incident is not quite right. but things also don’t change significantly. The world has not changed. all that has changed is Grantaire’s mind. The images have stopped flickering. The memories don’t come in scraps and pieces any more, they come in conversations, in sections, in chapters. The instances in which he remembers are still short-lived but the difference is that they are coherent scenes now. Grantaire can recall more of them but most of them are still distant as if the was trying to remember something from his early childhood.

It doesn’t help.

It is frightening.

Grantaire doesn’t go back to the place any more, his camera sits forgotten and stuffed away underneath his desk because the pictures on it are undeniable proof of something he has tried to deny ever since the first bullet hit his chest on a June morning. There ha d been other memories before but when the bullet that struck him in a past life had pierced his chest in the 21st century, he had known that there is no going back.

Nevertheless, he had tried, and he is still trying. Avoiding that place is just another way of adapting, another measure to ensure that he stays in the present. He will miss those days there but the chance of encountering another friend — no, stranger — from back then is too high for him to risk it.

He is happy with this life. And he would like to keep it the way it is. As long as possible. Preferably forever.

But of course, of fucking course, life doesn’t work this way. The universe is a wicked mistress that loves to make things go the exact opposite way of what he wishes them to be.

So it happens that he meets another familiar stranger a few days later when he is on the way from the library with his bag full of prints of papers about nonsense topics that somehow have made it into journals as publications. And as all things go in his life, and that stranger crosses his path in a flurry of twisting images and blurred streets, and they collide at full force because of Grantaire who has hurried to avoid talking to people and the stranger who has cut into his path running.

They both fall to the ground, Grantaire’s bag spilling its content over the hard pavement and the stranger on top of him, pinning him to ground with his knees on either side and his hands on Grantaire’s chest.

“What the devil, my dude, you could have died?!”

And that voice. Grantaire knows it. He had known it for a long time in this life, longer than he had known it back then, because in this life, this voice was his first memory. The most prevalent. Yet Grantaire is staring at the pavement, head turned and fixed on the street next to him and stubbornly refused to look. He is afraid of what he will find.

“Hey, are you okay?” that familiar voice asks.

At that, Grantaire has no choice but to look.

And Bossuet is staring down a him, dark brown eyes just as warm as back then, and his head is just as bald and he is still radiating a kind of relaxed cheer and just as handsome. Bossuet blinks. The worry is etched into his face, hidden under a layer of bemusement and it is scarily comforting.

Grantaire looks at him and there is a lump in his throat and pressure behind his eyes, he wants to sob, he wants to hug him and punch him and hug him again but Grantaire is terrified. He is terrified of the past finally catching up to him. He is not ready to be caught yet. He is not ready to face the past, to face them.

Grantaire shifts from where he is pinned down and immediately Boss— no, the stranger — lets go. They both get up from the ground, dusting themselves off, and in Grantaire’s case, hastily gathering the spilled contents of his bag and trying to get as far away as soon as possible.

“Thanks,” Grantaire croaks through barely contained feelings, and he sounds terrible, he sounds sick. He wants to go.

“No worries, man!” the stranger grins. “Be careful next time!”

He throws an arm over Grantaire’s shoulder and stops suddenly. His stare becomes distant, he blinks and blinks again, and Grantaire knows what is happening, so he does what he does best in situations he doesn’t want to handle.

Grantaire has already moved himself away from the stranger’s arm and put some distance between them. And just as he turns to run, fast and directionless and panicked, the stranger calls out to him.

“You know who I am, don’t you,” he asks, “Capital R?”

And Grantaire runs.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks have passed since that.

Before, his memories have come and went for a few hours, a day at most, but now, they are there, constant, confusing. Grantaire has tried to avoid them, tried to stop them from coming back, it hasn’t worked but he has found another place his mind could settle: a little antique bookshop tucked away in the corner in the old city. He found it by chance when he ran from Bossuet, breathing heavily and frantic

The old man who runs it has welcomed Grantaire with a gentle smile, and a cup of warm tea and Grantaire has felt so at ease that he couldn’t help but return as he does today.

Grantaire pushes through the glass door and the little wind chime tingles in that familiar tune and everything melts away. All his thoughts, his anxiety, and most of all the memories. Here, he is just another customer, here he can forget.

Grantaire trots up to the counter, pulling out books he has found in the last day of which he thought would fit in greatly with all these books here.

“You said you wanted more books on flowers because that section was lacking?” Grantaire babbles without looking from his bag as he hoists the books onto the counter. “The botany institute was going through their library and I could snatch a few! You would have had a field day at the sale, old man, it was really something, and this one book — wait, where is it — this book here, that seems right up you alley!”

The last book finally finds its place on top of the book pile and then there is silence. Grantaire finally looks up to see why  the old man hasn’t responded yet and is met with a face that is definitely not old.

And familiar. Not in a ‘I’ve seen you around campus’ way but in a ‘I remember you from a past life’ way.

Not good.

Grantaire wants to recoil but he catches himself. He takes a deep breath. “Uhm,” he starts, “Where’s the old man?”

The young man blinks at him, confused for a bit, then he says: “You mean Mabeuf? He is out for bit, he’ll be back soon.”

Grantaire nods. “Okay. Cool.”

The young man doesn’t seem bothered by Grantaire’s confusion. He holds out his hand. “My name is Marius Pontmercy, nice to meet you.”

“Call me R,” Grantaire says and takes the offered hand.

The world remains unchanged.

 

* * *

 

Marius is the perfect compromise between having your loneliness eased by having someone familiar to talk to and not having to deal with the things he is running from. It’s a kind of bizarre kind of comfort, of having Marius here, a clear reminder of a life past and not having to think about it since Marius doesn’t remember. His words don’t slip, there is no empty space with him because Marius isn’t waiting for someone who isn’t there to chime in, isn’t acting with the assumption that someone else should be there too. Here in this tiny bookshop, the world seems complete and Grantaire appreciates it more than he would admit out loud.

So Grantaire finds himself a new friend and a part of him regrets that he hadn’t put more effort into becoming Marius’ friend back then but the other part of him is glad because it is just a reassurance that the past him is another person and the person he is now, is enjoying a second chance at a friendship that his past self would have scoffed at.

Grantaire somehow understands why his past self did so. Marius is too earnest and too serious and often all of Grantaire’s jokes would fly over his head. But it’s okay. Present Marius is different from past Marius too, because present Marius does have a sense humour. Grantaire sometimes wonders what went differently for him in this life but since Marius doesn’t remember there is no use in asking and there is no use in knowing since Grantaire doesn’t have anything to compare to.

All Grantaire knew of Marius back then was his affection for a girl he didn’t even know the name of.

So Grantaire spends a lot of time in the antique book shop, sometimes helping out the old man Mabeuf and often joined by Marius who happened to be the old man’s godson, and the three of them talk about books and plants and myths and Grantaire feels safe and at ease.

Grantaire doesn’t expect it to last long. This shop is only a temporary solution to what looms outside the doors, outside the safe confines of this walls lined with books from floor to ceiling. Reality comes crashing down with the tingle of the wind chimes and another young man walking, just as familiar as Marius had been but this time, the world changes and twists, warping the image before his eyes so much that Grantaire had to close them.

And he keeps them closed, he hears Marius’ footsteps and shuffling, some books being pushed into shelves...

“Oh, you’re here!” Marius says to the arrival. “Come, I want you to meet someone.”

Oh no.

No no no. Bad.

Steps. They are coming closer and internally, Grantaire is bracing for impact.

“R?” says Marius.

Grantaire has no choice but to open his eyes again. He keeps them lowered though.

“I want you meet my boyfriend,” Marius continues. “His name is Courfeyrac.”

Grantaire finally looks up and Courfeyrac is fixing him with a look that Grantaire knows well, somewhat angry, somewhat frustrated.

“We’ve met,” Courfeyrac says and punches him.

 

* * *

 

There is no escape now from his past. The memories are haunting him, they are everywhere, still blotchy and still mismatched but they are there. He remembers the way the candles have shone too brightly one evening, he remembers the clinking of glasses on a birthday, he remembers the feeling of his well worn hat and the little sparks of joy the sight of his favourite cravat gave him (not that he would admit it to anyone).

There is no denial left any more. He can still run but running only helps so much. His past life has caught up to him and now he had no other choice but to deal with it.

And so he is returning that street again. A street he has walked countless of times, a place he knows by heart. He pushes the doors to that particular place open and it feels familiar. His past self had been pushing open the doors to a place that had been called The Musain and now, two hundred years later, he is pushing open the doors to a similar place.

He doesn’t know what he is looking for here. After all, all this place has in common with something from back then was the street. Everything has changed: the stores, the stones, the people. And yet, here he is, and he knows that he is in the right place because there is no other place for him to be.

He is staring at everything which is a silly thing to do because honestly, there is nothing familiar left. Maybe the layout of the place, maybe the placement of the windows but nothing else.

The piece of paper in his hand with writings in a neat and elegant writing trembles. His heart beats so fast he could feel it in his throat. It feels like bursting. But Grantaire pushes it down because he has to do this. He has been running for so long. Time is up. He knows.

It is easy. he has to take the few steps, has to push past the front of the store, to open the door at the back, walk through a small corridor and then...

The light from the back room almost blinds him after the dimly lit corridor and the door creaks a little as he hesitantly pushes it open. Laughter can be heard from inside, familiar laughter and voices he hasn’t for almost a century.

And when he steps inside, they are all there. All eight of them and some more. There is a sob stuck in his chest and he wants to turn away, to not let them see but just s he tries to do so, someone grabs him by his collar and pulls him back, pulls him into a hug.

“Welcome back,” Joly says, “We’ve been waiting for you.” And Grantaire lets himself be hugged so tightly he thinks his ribs might break because he returns the hug just as fiercely.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says and it sounds choked and wet and shaky. “I’m sorry for—”

“For running?” someone interrupts.

Grantaire lets go and looks up and there, Enjolras is. his posture just is as proud and his expression just as hard as Grantaire remembers but it has something different to it here, something vulnerable and unsure. Enjolras has crossed his arms in front of his chest but the his fingers are cramped, digging into his arms like claws. Tense. Anxious.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says again.

“It’s in the past,” Joly says. “We can’t change it. You’re here now, are you?”

Grantaire wants to nod but he can’t.

“You’re staying, are you not?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Why not?” Enjolras asks.

“I don’t think I should be here.”

“Where else would you be then?” Joly says.

There is nothing Grantaire could answer to that. Joly is right. Where else could he go? Where else does he belong if not here.

“You can’t keep running,” Enjolras says. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“For us, stay please,” Joly says.

Grantaire wants to say yes. All of him wants to say yes but — there is no but. The universe has aligned in such a way that there is no reason for him to run again. The only thing stopping him is himself but with all of them here, with their presence keeping that part of himself at bay, making him forget the guilt and the anxiety, he can see himself being here. He can see himself returning and maybe the fall out wont be as bad as he expected.

It was certainly worth a try.

“Well?” Enjolras says after while, “are you still running?”

Grantaire looks up at Enjolras and then around them, to all the people they are surrounded by, all these strangers he knows so well and back at Enjolras who has fixed Grantaire with an expectant stare burning with the intensity of a thousand raging suns and suddenly, there is no other answer.

“No,” Grantaire says, “I’m done running.”

Enjolras still watches him expectantly, waiting. Grantaire knows what he is waiting for. It is easy. It is familiar.

“If you permit it,” Grantaire continues, “I would like to stay.”

And Enjolras doesn’t say anything but he holds out his hand towards Grantaire, confident that Grantaire would take it.

And Grantaire does.

Enjolras smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried....
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Say hi on my [ tumblr](https://decayingliberty.tumblr.com)! :3


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